Then his righteous anger and loathing welled into his throat. [Illustration: “_I AM IN COMMAND HERE!_”] “How dare you talk of me that way before your men?” he cried, his face pale as death, and his strong fists clinched. “Well, who are you, anyway?” Tillotson exclaimed swaggeringly. “A midshipman!--ashore you have no status, so from now on please mind your own business.” “Come on, sir,” O’Neil whispered, grasping firmly but respectfully Phil’s arm. The sailor felt the lad’s muscles standing out like whip-cords. He foresaw that something was about to happen. “Don’t spoil all our fun, sir. If you hit him, which he richly deserves, you’ll lose your ship, and where will Mr. Monroe and Jack O’Neil be then?” In spite of his anger and mortification the remark of his favorite brought a faint smile to Phil’s face. “I guess you’re right, Jack,” he replied, his voice shaking with emotion, calling him unconsciously by the name which he always used in his thoughts, and allowed himself to be led away. The midshipman called his men together and walked quietly toward the beach, while Lieutenant Tillotson took entire charge of gathering up the spoils. “The lieutenant’s compliments, sir,” spoke an orderly at Phil’s side as he was about to step into his boat to go to the “Mindinao,” where at least he did have some status. “And he says, he orders you to send your men to report to him to put things in order.” Phil turned on the messenger fiercely, and then in time remembered the soldier was but the innocent bearer of this insolent command. “Come on, O’Neil,” the lad said with a tone of humiliation in his voice, leading the way back toward the burning town. “I suppose I must pocket my pride. I am only a midshipman, after all, and on shore here I am under his orders.” After Sydney had anchored the gunboat he hailed a boat from the shore and soon stood by Phil’s side. The fire was quite beyond their control and inside of a few hours a great part of the nipa town was in ashes. By almost superhuman efforts most of the supplies and ammunition of the garrison were rescued, and piled in the little plaza in front of the church, where tents were pitched and all preparations made to receive the soldiers of Captain Baker when they returned from their expedition to the northward. In interrupted and fragmentary sentences Phil told Sydney of the insults offered him by the army man. Sydney’s eyes blazed in anger. “The dastardly coward,” he exclaimed after the story had been unfurled before him. “While you were risking your life, he was sitting on the quarter-deck apparently glad to be in a place of safety, and now he comes and wants to reap all the reward. I don’t see how he has the face to appear before his men.” “He’s not a regular, anyway,” Phil exclaimed in a relieved voice. “O’Neil says the sergeant told him he was some rich politician’s son, a black sheep, appointed in a regular regiment. That explains him somewhat.”